Brave Hawks down but looking to 2013

Peter Hanlon

IN HIS right eyebrow were half a dozen stitches - not carefully placed by a doctor mindful of scarring, but hastily sewn in a jagged line aimed only at stemming the flow and getting the victim back on the ground pronto. That even this was a lost cause was betrayed by the dried blood in Luke Hodge's stubble, stretching down his neck.

The blue egg bulging around the wound would only get bigger, but it was the ache that couldn't be seen that was ripping him apart. ''It's a pretty empty feeling at the moment,'' Hodge said, forcing a smile that failed to bring the sparkle back to his eyes.

Hawthorn's captain came into the grand final with what teammate Brad Sewell admitted was a ''less than ideal'' preparation, having been hit by a serious bout of gastro that kept him at home as the Hawks clawed past Adelaide a week earlier. He lost several kilograms, and could feed his tender tummy only steamed fish and rice, when his ''engine'' was crying out for a steak and spuds of his Western District roots.

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''It's a grand final; you get up,'' Hodge said, adding that everyone expected exactly what they got - a high-intensity game in which bodies flew right, left and centre. Did he have the energy levels he would have hoped for?

''Yeah, yep, I had no problem.''

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This was the closing of the door on excuses.

In those interminable post-siren minutes on the ground, when the vanquished endure seemingly endless airings of the winners' song, and at miserable length the smiling, cheering procession to collect their medals and lift the cup, Hodge was sought out by John Kennedy snr. His grandson was only 30 metres away, rejoicing, but the ''father of Hawthorn'' stayed with his old flock, as if trying to absorb some of their pain. ''Pretty much, he said, 'I know how you feel. Come back harder next year','' Hodge recalled of the words exchanged between an old man in a gabardine coat who has seen all that football can throw up, and the warrior feeling for the first time the pain of ultimate defeat.

In possession: Hawthorn's Jordan Lewis is besieged from all sides. Photo: Sebastian Costanzo

Hodge said as much in the losing captain's mandatory journey to the microphone, having praised Sydney for being not only a well-respected side but ''well-liked as well''. Sewell reiterated the mantra of strength drawn from suffering, saying they would lick their wounds over the next eight weeks, reload and go again. ''Our group will bounce back, there's no doubt about that.''

Yet amid the grey faces of the loser's rooms, the mind tends to look only back, not forward. The only certainty tomorrow brings is that it will feel even worse than today.

By the throat: Kieren Jack(left) and Cyril Rioli go at it in the hotly contested final. Photo: Sebastian Costanzo

Grim routines were adhered to. Lance Franklin and Hodge stopped on the way into the rooms to collect cups to replenish lost fluid, knowing that beyond the wall next door champagne and beer flowed. A property steward wheeled trolleys laden with boxes of unused socks and shorts out to a club van. Former president Jeff Kennett had come and gone before the doors were thrown open to family.

Alastair Clarkson took his players into a meeting room and spoke for several minutes; Hodge's recall of what was said was: ''To be honest, not a hell of a lot.'' Sewell confessed: ''I wasn't really listening too much, to be honest.''

''We did plenty of good things throughout the day and plenty of disappointing things,'' Hodge said, adding that the Swans would probably say the same. ''The only difference is they converted a few of their 50-50 chances.''

Sewell concurred: ''We've had a good year, but we lacked a bit of polish today. What, 11.15 we ended up kicking? That's the story at the end of the day - they kicked straight and we didn't.''

Asked how close some of those chances looked from out in the middle - like the normally reliable Jack Gunston's last-quarter poster - Sewell wasn't interested in degrees. ''Pretty close isn't quite good enough. We certainly had opportunities; didn't take them.''

When he wasn't being banished to the bench by the umpires for running repairs on his head, Hodge spent much of the day directing traffic across half-back, willing himself to be the leader of influence who won the Norm Smith Medal in far happier times four years ago. His effort never faltered, but this was another of the day's futile pursuits.

Inside the first half he looked like anyone who has had a bad bout of gastro then tried to run themselves ragged a week later could readily imagine. He was blowing hard, chomping on a banana on the bench as he tried to fuel his body. ''If you look back to round one, we would have been doing the same thing,'' he said, again unwilling to concede that anything was out of the ordinary.

Sewell, brave and pivotal to his side's chances as ever, was asked if any light could be found in the darkness. ''No. I don't think it's sunk in yet, to be honest. Still a little bit numb.

''We'll stick together tonight, go and have a feed, a few beers, talk about what could have been. I'm sure it'll really sink in when the boys wake up tomorrow, the next day, those weeks after that.''

Hodge retreated to his family, wife Lauren placing a consoling hand to his side, her tomorrow soon to be consumed with the birth of their second child.

Sam Mitchell broke off to collect son Smith, talking quietly as he carried him back into the rooms, a father explaining why Daddy and his mates were feeling sad.

A few minutes later, Smith Mitchell emerged with a club official, holding in both hands a slice of pizza so big it almost covered the smile on his face. Cheering up the grown-up Hawks will not come so easy.